


the price we pay, or falling victim to sentiment

by moonstone1520



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Season/Series 03, Smut, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 13:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6958975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonstone1520/pseuds/moonstone1520
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What do you need?”<br/>The hand holding hers released its grip and she felt it migrate to her hip where he pulled her closer so she was flush against his body.<br/>“You,” he whispered desperately. “Only you. Always you, Molly Hooper.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	the price we pay, or falling victim to sentiment

**Author's Note:**

> My first smut fic--please be kind!

She was tired. After five autopsies and a mountain of paperwork that she was only halfway through, Molly Hooper was more than tired, she was _exhausted_. The fact she was able to get any paperwork done at all was, in itself, a minor miracle—the man who would typically manipulate her time away from trivial matters like paperwork had been conspicuously absent from her lab for several weeks.

Then again, three slaps to the face does make a person want to come around less often.

She yawned in the middle of writing a sentence, and when she was unable to get her vision to revert the two pieces of paper in front of her back to one, she decided to call it a night.

She went through the motions of closing up her lab: powering down her computer; shucking her lab coat and hanging it neatly on the provided hook; turning off the lights and locking her office; flicking off the lights in the lab the technicians had left on. She pulled her hair out of its ponytail and gently massaged her scalp where the elastic sat for the better portion of the day. She grabbed her handbag and coat from the locker room and made her way out the lab doors when her senses tingled—she wasn’t alone.

Moving cautiously, she peered around the corner, her keys slotted between her fingers, just in case. She exhaled heavily when she saw the familiar silhouette leaning against the lab counter. Molly gracelessly dropped her things on the floor and approached him, her fatigue fueling her irritation.

“Sherlock, what are you doing here? It’s late and I’d very much like to get home so tell me what you need so I can—” The face he turned to her cut her to the quick with its open vulnerability and sadness and… desperation. “Sherlock?”

He smiled that sad smile at her. “Hello, Molly.”

“Sherlock, do—do you need something?” Her wide brown eyes searched his face and came up with nothing that would reassure here that he wasn’t in some sort of trouble. “Do you need me?” The words came out without her even thinking about them and she cringed at how it sounded. “I don’t mean, _me_ , I mean… well, do you need me to do something for you?”

“Like what?” The tone in which he answered her broke her heart in two. It sounded like he had… given up.

“Sherlock, did something happen? Is John alright? Mary? The baby? You?” Light flared up behind his eyes, but it was gone before she could distinguish it. A long silence elapsed in which Molly’s eyes grew heavier and heavier. She could have sworn she was dreaming when she felt Sherlock’s hand snake into hers and hold on for dear life.

“Did you hear about Magnussen?”

The name rang a bell. Molly scrunched up her forehead as she searched her memory. “Wasn’t he some sort of newspaper magnate?”

Sherlock squeezed her hand tighter at the question. She wanted to cry out at his grip, but didn’t dare for fear of breaking whatever spell was over them. “Not anymore.”

She gasped and closed her eyes tightly. “Sherlock,” she whispered, “what did you do?” Molly felt movement and opened her eyes to find the detective standing right in front of her, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. His pulse hammered violently against his neck and his eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. Molly, however, wasn’t afraid.

“Molly—”

“Do you need me to kill you again?” she asked, the words coming out in a rush because she was afraid, no, she _knew_ that something had happened. Something big. Something big and very bad.

Something she wouldn’t be able to help fix this time.

He chuckled morosely at her question and his other hand come up to glide against her cheek, brushing strands of hair out of her face and behind her ear. “No, not this time Molly.”

She swallowed hard against his touch as his fingers slowly glided down her neck and traced her collarbone. “What happened?” she whispered, her hand coming up to rest on his chest, just above his heart. He looked down at it, his eyes wide, as though he just realized what he had been doing and the uncharted waters he had led them into. Possibly, he only just had. His heart jumped at her touch and his throat worked erratically. Molly watched him with growing concern.

 _My God, Sherlock Holmes is about to cry_ , she thought with astonishment. The pieces of the large puzzle _(larger than I’m sure I realize)_ began to fall together inside her head and she choked back a sob.

“Sherlock, you’re going to die, aren’t you? Just shake your head yes or no,” she added hastily when she saw him open his mouth. He held her gaze for a long time, not moving a muscle.

He shook his head yes.

Molly exhaled heavily and allowed a single tear to fall. He cracked a smile and reached up to wipe it away, letting his hand rest on her cheek. She pulled herself together and asked the question.

“What do you need?”

The hand holding hers released its grip and she felt it migrate to her hip where he pulled her closer so she was flush against his body.

“You,” he whispered desperately. “Only you. Always you, Molly Hooper.”

She felt her eyes flutter closed as he leaned down. His lips tentatively, gently, pressed to hers, almost searching in their shyness. She met him just as hesitantly, just as slowly, just as gently. Her hands slid up to link behind his neck, her fingers toying with the strands at the nape of his neck. Their kisses gradually became more urgent, less probing. Her tongue met his and began a duel that ignited heat in her core. His hands gripped her waist, trying to pull her closer to him. He tore her mouth away from hers and trailed hot, openmouthed kisses down her neck.

“Sherlock,” she breathed. He growled in response and she felt her feet leave the floor as he picked up and sat her on the counter. She pushed his Belstaff and suit jacket off, hooking her ankles around his waist as soon as they hit the ground. He cupped her face and fused his lips back to hers. He didn’t notice her fingers working at his white dress shirt until he felt her nails grazing his chest. He broke away from her with a hiss, his fingers gripping her neck, one hand under her jumper, on her bare back.

She flicked her gaze at him once, to make sure he was alright. “Sensitive still,” he ground out. She glanced down and realized she had grazed over his bullet wound. She bent her body to reverently brush her lips against the scar that remained. She felt him shudder against her mouth and she gasped as she was roughly pulled up and crushed to him again. Sherlock kissed her as though he was drowning and the air he needed was inside her lungs. He pulled away from her to rip her jumper over her head and mouth at her breasts through her bra. Through her mindless haze of desire, Molly released his belt and zip, snaking her hand into his trousers and wrapping it around his cock. Sherlock bit down on her nipple in response, causing her to squeeze on his member and hiss in pleasure. His hands moved from her back to tear her trousers off her. Molly heard a tearing sound ( _there go those knickers_ ) and gasped at the sensation of his fingers plunging into her wetness.

“Oh Molly,” she heard him breathe. She pushed his trousers down, freeing his cock and guided him to her entrance. Their eyes locked; his pupils were blown in the moonlight and he was breathing heavily. Molly swallowed and nodded minutely, leaning forward to kiss his throat. With a groan, he thrust into her, filling her up completely. Molly shouted in surprise and pleasure, gripping his back, her blunt nails digging into his skin. Sherlock stilled within her so she could get used to his girth. His hands encircled her waist, and he rained tiny kisses on her neck. When she loosened her hold on him, he slowly began to move within her. As their pace quickened, she met him with each thrust, her mewls of passion mingling with his throaty growls, the sounds of their movements loud in the silent lab. She soon felt the tell-tale uncoiling in her belly and she keened as she reached her climax, her head thrown back wantonly. Sherlock followed with a shout soon after, her walls convulsing around him, squeezing him to completion. He suckled on her pulse point as he rode out his release, leaving a mark that Molly would find the next morning as she dressed.

She ran her fingers through his curls as her breathing slowed and her heartbeat returned to normal. He held her tightly, still inside her, unwilling to move from her warmth. Sherlock raised his head from her neck and gently kissed her, nipping at her lower lip, trying to convey the feelings he had but knowing he was unable to do so.

Unwilling to leave, but knowing he must, Sherlock removed himself from her arms. He helped her hop down and turned away so she could dress, the irony of the act in the aftermath of their passion not lost on him in the slightest.

“So, that’s it then? Just a quick shag and you’re off?” Molly couldn’t help the bitterness that crept into her voice, the question bursting out of her before she could stop herself.  She saw him freeze as he slipped back into his shirt.

“This wasn’t just a quick shag,” he replied quietly. He avoided looking at her and she knew she’d touched a nerve. “I—I don’t know what this was Molly, but it wasn’t that.” She pulled her jumper back over her head and busied herself with cleaning their mess. _I’m not going to cry_ , she thought stubbornly. _I’m not going to cry, I’m not going to cry, I’m not going to—_

Rational thought was cut off when she felt strong hands turn her around and lips land on hers in a bruising kiss. She kissed him back just as fiercely, heedless of the traitorous tears that streamed down her face.

“Why?” she whispered when the kiss ended. “Why now?”

“Because I’m a selfish prick who didn’t realize what he had in front of him until it was too late. Because I don’t know how to do this. Because I wanted to be with you Molly, just once, while I still had the chance,” he replied raggedly. His hands came up to frame her face and he kissed her again.

“Because I wanted to feel alive, just one more time,” he whispered against her lips.

Molly bit her lip. “Stay with me tonight,” she murmured. “Please.” Sherlock nodded and kissed her forehead, allowing her to lead him out of the lab and to her bed.

***

They came together twice more that night, coupling both roughly and desperately and slowly and gently. Molly stayed awake as long as she could, knowing he’d be gone in the morning, but she eventually succumbed to slumber, his kisses lingering on her body, his limbs intertwined with hers.

***

She awoke the next morning alone in her bed, but with a new text message on her phone. It was a picture of her sleeping.

 _Goodbye, Molly_.


End file.
